Days of ‘22

by Jake Sheff

Nothing big is good, but the Red Cross Blood

Donation Center might be reality’s dissent.

On Thursday morning, I found myself inside

Its dizzying array of meekness and penitence,

A form of diarchy that was much-maligned

By the nauseous wind outside. A side effect

Of too much hope and fear, rather than trusting

In HaShem, I found my veins were confusing

Freed with greed. My cordiform apology could

Not expunge the nurse’s maleness: his needle

Whispered Let me do my job as it was sliding in.

Shit happens; history wouldn’t want it any

Other way. The Marlboro Man was telling me

That the urge to kneel is a symptom of burnout;

You gotta serve nobody. Outwardly, I agreed,

Because I wanted him to think me smart while

He was still my flesh wound’s keeper. Snoozin’

Susan, in the bed behind me, made a fool of

Everyone by playing peek-a-boo with dreams.

Pity lets a piglet govern men; it was like seeing

One or two guppies wrangling sharks, only

Even more backasswards! I sat and ate some

Cheese crackers—whose love was no excipient —

And drank them down with juice and pride.

For potability, nothing comes close to pride.

The sanctity of free T-shirts had risen naturally

In proportion to the scarcity of blood donors,

But mine broke the first rule of being charming:

Never tell them everything. At home, I found

A sleeping boulder: a bulldog puppy, who turned

Into a four-legged neutron star. I guess I’m

Addicted to self-inflicted, therapeutic trauma,

Since she bowled me over, and I wouldn’t have

Had it any other way. Something was off about

The following day; I can’t put my finger on it.

A vehement sunrise spoke in amphibologies.

The rowdy seconds of unfeeling hours produced

Two clouds that went floating overhead like

A pair of slippers. Their quietly popular land

Of opportunity will never hear the end of it.

The taste of time—a saucy herbalist—awoke

In me the love of pleasure and the love of action.

The counterculture aimed its .22 at any thoughts

I had of malversation. Two more big ideas

Were growing, each like a tumor, in the morning

Light; its blood, brain, and bone. I went to ski

Mt Hood, where even on craptastic snow,

The mean, median, and mode all sound like liars.

I need not explain that values are gods, gods

Values, and if you wish to understand a man’s

Behavior, look no further than what gods he

Talks to; before I left, my daughter consulted her

Mood ring, to know what mood she was in,

Then insisted I be careful, and have fun. My

Heart’s sincerity is never in doubt, nor is it

Insurmountable; it said, She is her father’s child.

Those who believe that distant doesn’t mean

Distinct, will eagerly listen to a long national

Hissy fit, which has dissembled the virtues of

Whipping boys, exaggerated their turn radii,

And condemned with rigor the grouchy ways

They imitate the Gracchi; roughly speaking

And in the best of cases, they will drag us each by

The tragus, these litigious and irreligious types,

Who make of hope and fear a Ruger—a most

Credulous Ruger, I might add; the opposite of

Wide awake—as if we’d ever want to change our

Minds. (The irreligious always join the new

Religions. For sober eyes, don’t make a god

Of anything.) I was thinking about this, as I

Was riding on the ski lift next to Alex. He

Watched as the color marched catawampus

From my face. A blizzard of bizarre competing

Interests floated in my vision, like a sort of

Living harmony, like mermaids all with

Emerald scales. Alex said, “You cannot . . .”

Cannot: the word that like a cannon smarts.

It’s said that humans have understanding, but

Standing under what? is only asked by children.

Alex sat by my bed as I was getting IV fluids

And a ha’porth of sense back. By arguments

And garments warmed, I left the slopes, where

I’d been the day’s Snoozin’ Susan, and my

Almost broken spine was almost my personal

Baruch Spinoza. The hard-won blessing of lunch

With my friend was enjoyed, and I gave thanks

For my piece of plenty. “Plenty and peace breed

Cowards,” said Alex, looking just like he was

Quoting something, something more high-

Throughput than heaven and time combined.

That night allowed what swallowed to be

Swallowed; grief, that is. I asked my sleep

To get it over with, but woke the following

Day with outrageous joy. The smell of babka

And the anger of an angry wife enveloped me.

“It was dangerous to trust the sincerity of your

Confidence,” she said. Said I, “But to seem to

Distrust it, why that’s more dangerous still,

My sweet.” To all of our east-facing window

Plants, the morning was howling mellifluously.

On a Saturday like that, it is all one whether

We see the sun rise or feel it. “You always

Want to change another’s mind, but not your

Own,” my wife complained. “Some ordinary

People have a hard time identifying as such,”

The TV added, as if to console one of us.

2022 was firing a .22 in the distance. I told

My cat, “You can’t grow old, you’re my best

Friend,” but then, I turned to aging and said,

“Just get on with it.” My weathered spirit—

Weathered stern to bow—was drifting on

The Black Sea of my Covid recovery, so I

Brewed some fresh black tea and swore

I wouldn’t touch a drop of alcohol at Johanna’s

Birthday party. Some bowling balls hit harder

Than Gog and Magog on two-legged horses;

The mind, and other social constructs, interfered

With my ability to roll a strike that day. Sub-

Variants of Omicron and humor filled the air;

You know it, I know it, and the February sexless

Rain outside knows it, the arcade seemed to say.

Something touched the afternoon’s McBurney’s

Point just as cake was being served. Troy, who

Would’ve plundered the Alani’s land in days

Of 22 BC, was singing “Happy Birthday” in

The style of Alanis Morrisette to benefit mankind.